


Bridge to our future

by MeggiMed



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fourth Age and beyond, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inspired by Tosquinha's art, Maglor's adventure in family rebuilding, Modern Era, Third Age, not too much angst though, wandering Maglor, with insufferable foster son and reborn brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:23:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2836241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeggiMed/pseuds/MeggiMed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Maglor stopped being alone after a while wandering, Elrond was too used to be a desperate father, and the Valar suddenly remember there was an elf who deserved family after five Ages.<br/>Title is from Alex Haley's quote: "In every conceivable manner, the family is link to our past, bridge to our future."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Tosquinha's art  
> http://tosquinha.tumblr.com/post/105014940727/wandering-maglor-reuniting-with-elrond-at-some

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“The stubborn old elf finally gave up being stubborn huh? How blessed we are, don’t you think, my dear Celebrían? Humph!”

Celebrían wanted to burst out with laughter, but it was not proper for the Lady of Imladris. Her Father once told her that all those protocols were nonsense; there was no reason, said he, that the Lords could laugh out loud when the Ladies could not. Her Mother had laughed, then, and told her, ‘Marry an ellon grown up under the reign of Melian the Maia and with Lúthien Tinúviel has its advantage.’ She clearly thought back about her own childhood then, her mother, living with a ton of brilliant male cousins, not that she was any less than them.

_How would she react now_ , mused the Lady, unable to hold back her snickering anymore,  _if she knew about one of those cousins of her had decided to reside here in the Valley, and currently suffered under the scolding of his foster son_. There was no trace of the gracious and calm Lord of the Last Homely House now: her husband had seemed unable to stop complaining ever since Maglor’s letter came (Makalaurë’s, she corrected herself. Her mother still called him Káno, and Celeborn called him Makalaurë while talking about him with his family). He finally exploded when his dear, dear father actually entered his land.

“Almost THREE Age, Makalaurë. I have looked for you everywhere! Do you know how worry I was with all the wars and orcs and disasters and you being out there?”

Celebrían eyed her cousin curiously. Makalaurë was a formidable elf, despite being much shorter than Elrond. All the old clothes and years of wandering apparently could not affect his warrior self. Elrond still had his twin blades in his memory chamber, hung under the painting depicting Makalaurë sparing with Maitimo, but somehow she felt the great harp behind his back should take more credit of those lean muscle hiding behind the tattered sleeves than the weapons themselves.

“All alone, of course, of course you are. Without any weapon, because no, you would not bear anything that can harm a single creature in Arda, despite being defenseless against thousands of orcs and wargs and beasts in the wild. Ulmo’s beard, Makalaurë, it seems that your stubbornness and your survival instinct can outweigh any foe in this mad dangerous world!”

_Ha, now it is refreshing_ , mused Celebrían merrily. Elrond cussed! And it must be her eyes deceiving her, or the second son of Fëanor, the once-High King of the Noldör,  _her mother’s cousin!_ , was recoiling from her kind husband, trying to hide his face further behind that hood and the thick dark curls. He did not even have a chance to speak: Elrond’s lecture bestowed upon him now was worse than that time when the twins, at the age of ten, decided to go swimming in the Bruinen in middle of the storm.

And those little demons were snooping under the bushes. Probably with eyes as wide as Glorfindel’s and Lindir’s right now. Time for intervention, then.

“Elrond, dear?” She put a hand on his arm, could not stop herself stroking those biceps under the silk at little. Her Peredhel was always extremely pleasing to the touch. “Would you want to take a moment to introduce our twins to their grandfather before continuing your welcome speech?”

For a moment, Elrond furrowed his brows, as if not understanding what she was talking about. Then he followed Makalaurë’s eyes to the ground, where four little dirty feet stuck out of the shrub. There was something in the elder elf’s eyes that made his own soften, probably the bittersweet memory of another pair of dark-haired mischievous twins hiding under the curtain, spying the household’s adults everywhere in the great fortress of Himring.

“You come to see your grandchildren, don’t you, Atar?” Elrond knelt down on the dirt, scooped up two little bodies squirming and giggling in his arms, and so missed the subtle flinch of the newcomer at his last word.

“There, kids.” Elrond put the Elflings sitting on the marble table, fixed their hair and tunic, “Meet your Grandpa. Atar, Elladan, Elrohir, your first grandkids. Don’t you dare spoiling them. Much.”

 

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	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Tosquinha's art  
> http://tosquinha.tumblr.com/post/103974502092/jul-likes-magpies-said-a-happy-reborn

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So the Valar have been merciful, after all.

The day (and not night) the King of the Valar appeared in his dream, and told him he could go home now if he would choose it, Makalaurë had believed it was a bad joke. It was one thing bringing an exiled false hope of coming home after five ages -  _Five Ages!_  - of wandering and hiding from all living creatures. To make him believe that he even has a choice, that was bad taste. The Powers apparently had much time on their hands after all the favourite children safely returning to their arms.

And also because why would he choose  _not_  to go home? Was not the so-called self-exile also because the Sea did never let him pass the first mile from the beach?

He tried. That he did.

But now, he could never doubt that he would choose anything over this. “This” is the four-year-old Elfling with a  _river_  of copper-coloured hair (he did not want to cut it, but how it could even grow faster than the bamboo in their backyard? The fact that it did not curl was not helping either.). The tiny baby that could be sweet and calm all day long (just like Elros), then disappeared a moment later and reappeared in the middle of the rumples, red leaves in red hair (even the serious ‘I’m  _thwinkin_ ’ was the same as Elrond’s).

.

_“So, Manwë said you could sail immediately, or stay here raising reborn Maedhros?” Thranduil asked, incredulously staring at the tiny bundle with a tiny mop of red hair and a tiny nose and a tiny thumb sticking in tiny mouth._

_Makalaurë nodded. After all these years hiding from civilization, it was a wonder that he did not recoil at the sight of an elf (a formidable Sinda king warrior whose family he had destroyed, no less!). He almost did._

_But he could not raise Maedhros in isolation, wandering from beach to cave, in exiled. No, he might punish himself, but he could not do the same to Maitimo. His brother deserved more than this._

So here they were, living in a little house with a little backyard, with food and clothing and books and toys sent monthly. Modern food, human and elvish clothes and books and toys. He had known what he could get even before contacting them. He knew the mind of elven kind – he was the strategist after all.

More than that, he knew the heart of a father. That was why he did not bother look for Dearon, but instead went directly to the two remaining elves that would probably slay him at sight, had he not holding Maitimo in his arms. He just couldn’t anticipate the soften eyes of Thranduil towards the copper hair and the silent moment when Celeborn saw bright grey eyes looking at him.

.

“Káno?” Maitimo tugged at his trousers, rubbing his face in the soft cotton.

“Mm, what is it, Nelyo?” Makalaurë did not divert his eyes from the pantry, his brows furrowed as he tried the strange thing that should be pumpkin crumbs, but did not tasted like pumpkin at any rate.

“It is true you’re my younger brother?” Maitimo’s voice was still timid, but his eyes looking at him strong and confident. Still the natural leader and diplomat, then.

_Another piece of memories returned?_  Thought Makalaurë. He put the plate on the table, then knelt and picked up his brother.

“Yes, that you were. That you will be, when you are not a baby anymore.” He kissed the silken skin of his cheeks, then touched his forehead with his own. No more sight of last evening’s fever. “But not now. I am the big bro now. And it must be ‘Is is true  _that_  you are my younger brother’, Nelyo.”

“Hmm.” Maitimo nodded, seemed content for awhile. But just as Makalaurë thought about resting here forever, his dearest brother in his arms, nothing between them but love and trust, his temporarily-younger eldest brother spoke up.

“Does that mean I cannot pinch your cheeks when I want to?”

 

 

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	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there was fire, Maglor's mind was wandering too far for his own good, and I tried to do angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Tosquinha's art  
> http://tosquinha.tumblr.com/post/105216452547/markedasinfernal-sometimes-i-think-about

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It burned. Oh it burned. It was not the heat anymore - that thing, that beautiful cursed thing was tearing his skin out of his hand. If he looked down and stared hard enough at his left hand _(the hand writing his music, the hand creating his bass notes on the flute, the hand pulling out bloody arrows from Tyelkormo’s body, the hand closing Atarinkë’s eyes, the hand releasing Carnistir of the pain_ —- he dared not continue his thoughts, still the coward he was), there might be dark flames devouring his fingers.

But Makalaurë cared not about his treasured hand, nor the pain, nor the angry Silmaril in his grip. The heat he felt in his face, the fever he sensed in his mind, the burning lava gobbled through his heart, poured down from his eyes melted away the bones of his cheeks. The fiery chasm his first and now only brother was going to throw himself down.

“Maedhros. No, no, Maitimo, Nelyo, I beg you.” He never knew where his voice came from, however wrecked it was. “I beg you, Nelyo, don’t do this.”

He almost cried out when his brother turned his head back.  _His hair had caught fire!_  But no, there was no flame touching his glory scarred face, neither did Makalaurë’s eyes deceive him. His brother’s flaming red hair, once upon a time did he and Findekáno compose their most beautiful drunk piece of melody just for the sake of worshiping its form and colour, glitzed like fire embracing Maitimo’s features. The pyre was dancing in his grey round eyes, playing a song that he has now known by heart. The fever ran in their veins screaming an oath. The torches cremated the youngest and yet wisest of them at Losgar. The spirit of flame their great and cursed father finally turned into. The roaring blaze ate down the Sindar’s home, and then reduced three of their brothers to ashes. The extinguished light in the last Ambarussa’s feä. The agony. The desperation. The resignation to final judgment of the Valar, to death.

But there was only a single apprehension that did not flow out of Makalaurë’s mind in that moment.

His brother, his Maitimo, his dearest Nelyo, was going to left. He was going to leave Makalaurë again, to suffer alone against the world, again.

“Nelyo, please. Please, please, please.” Makalaurë dared not move, yet wanted desperately to kneel down for a pray. “Just… just throw it away. Throw the Silmaril. Don’t leave. Don’t leave me.”

And yet Nelyo just looked at him, his sight clear yet full of madness, his only hand clutching the damned stone, the magnificent madness, and disappeared right before his eyes. Nelyo’s eyes never left his when he took one more weary, light step forward.

It must be just Makalaurë’s imagination of an apology from that final look.

 

(“Káno!” The merry hail brought him back from memories. A pair of round grey eyes looked back at him, full of hope and happiness. Both hands waving, little unmarred body bouncing tried to catch his sight.

“Look at me, Káno!” The eyes never left his, when Maitimo jumped forward, dove in the little blue pool.)

 

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	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there was singing about stars, and Makalaurë remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Tosquinha's art  
> tosquinha.tumblr.com/post/98008681267/princemaedhros-respondeu-a-sua-postagem-oh-gosh

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“When you wish upon a staaaaaaaarrrrr----“

Makalaurë stiffed a laugh. Maitimo was always the perfect son of Prince Fëanaro, there was almost nothing he could not do and excel in it. But it seemed like whatever talent of Fëanor and Nerdanel in singing had probably skipped their first son to cumulate in their second. He loved his brother’s voice, though.

 

There was a time of extreme peace in Valinor where the grandchildren of Finwë could camp together, fooling around as if they were but some ordinary young elves, not princes or princesses in the house full of complicated politics and family dramas. They broke into groups based on hobbies, not their house they belonged to. The Hunters, as they called themselves, or The-Ones-with-Food, Tyelkormo and Irissë always disappeared somewhere until meal time, brought with them the meat they had never needed to pack. Turukáno and Artanis and Curufinwë, self-named the Brains-that-actually-exist, would lay somewhere on the grass, far away from the Children, with Turukáno’s books and Artanis’s scrolls and Curufinwë’s designs, criticizing each other’s works, sometimes with words, other with pillows on the head, yet never with the heat nor meanness which happened to be plenty in Tirion. The twins, Arakáno, Angaráto and Aikanáro, the Children, headed off immediately to the river, sometimes for fish, but mostly for the most ferocious water fights that could shame even the naughtiest boys and girls born near the beaches of Aqualondë.

The eldest grandchildren of Finwë, though, were not as inclined towards exciting activities as their siblings, having their shares of Court participation. The musicians of the Royal house, namely Makalaurë, Findekáno and Findaráto would bring their harps and flute, their fingers and voices would melt into each other’s melodies. There must be in their blood, since no rehearsal were ever needed for their harmony. They were always the Relaxation Corner, as Tyelkormo called it. Maitimo would be there, served as pillow for either one of the three, occasionally for all of them at once. (Carnistir would also be there, sleeping or doing needlework. He never looked more peaceful.) Then, every two or three outings, with the right amount of acohol in his veins, Maitimo would sing, too.

Never before, nor again in their separate life, had the Brains and Carnistir ever laughed that hard and heartfelt.

The songs he sang were always the ones he composed when Makalaurë himself were but a baby, as an attempt to teach his first baby brother about the stars. The lyrics were simple, scientifically correct and artistically terrific; the melody was probably beautiful in Nelyo’s head, but become hideous after it came out of his lovely mouth.

No, not only Makalaurë, but they all have loved Maitimo’s singing voice. They all have loved Nelyo, they all looked to him as their own brother. Makalaurë knew it, since after the eldest, no grandchild of Finwë growing up had ever been in need of being taught about stars.

 

There was no other here, now. Makalaurë often wondered what their siblings and cousins were doing. Artanis must be in Valinor, all happy and proud, even when her husband was still lingering in this side of the sea. He believed the other children of Arafinwë should surely be released from the Hall. Findekáno, for sure. Turno and Irissë deserved the peace. Telyo as well, if he has not stay waiting for Pityo. He did not believed there would be any singing in Mandos for their other three brothers.

Nelyo’s little body stirred in his arms as his singing ceased. The child looked up at him, his messy bun almost slipped off. There was no light of the Trees in his eyes anymore, but there were lights, silver starlight glittering in those grey orbs, and the peace that had lost has been found again. Makalaurë laid his head against the wall of their house, caressed chubby cheeks with his calloused and scarred hand.

“Let me teach you about the stars, hmm?”

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the support. English is my third language, and I have no beta, so please point out mistake if you found any, I will be very grateful :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there was teenager elfling, and someone has been good enough for a New Year Red Envelope!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Tosquinha's art  
> http://tosquinha.tumblr.com/post/104081918007/i-need-them-all-reborn-and-happy-im-going-to-cry
> 
> And Lunar New Year is coming soon! Wish all my Vietnamese friends, and all Chineses, Koreans, Mongolians, and Tibetians a Happy New Year!

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“Do you know what time of the year is coming soon?” Makalaurë gently pushed his brother on the back with his free hand, the other carefully balanced two big shopping bags least they hit a pregnant woman on his right and her baby girl.

“I don’t know.” His little -big- brother, now had already reached his shoulder after his first months of puberty, pursed his lips, didn’t even care about raise his eyes from the thick book. “May be a warmer day?” Maitimo turned a page, then tighten the fluffy scarf around his neck.   _Whatever other elves might say about his fabulousness_ , thought Makalaurë secretly, admiring the river of smooth wool that complemented perfectly his brother’s unique hair colour and complex, _Thranduil does have a great sense of fashion_. “It’s Febuary, and if I open the window my bath can even ice-up in an hour.”

“It is not that bad, Nelyo. I too wish for a rise of temperature soon, but it is fairly normal this century, and you know about climate change.” Makalaurë eyed the A4 booklet in his brother’s hand. “That’s not the answer I’m waiting for, though.” He chuckled, tightened his grip on his brother’s right hand reproachingly.

One of these days he really wished the rest of his brothers can be here with them. There had been few who had chance to know this façade of Maitimo. Himself aside, there were only their parents, occasionally his Grandfather and may be Uncle Nolofinwë who could remember a slightly-dramatic, prone-to-complain Maitimo in his earlier stage of purbety. By the time Tyelkormo could remember clearly what happened around him, their eldest brother had become the calm, gentle, patient and perfectlly composed Prince Nelyafinwë.

“Then I don’t know.” Maitimo shook his head, marked the page, and then pulled his hand off Makalaurë’s fingers to put the book (‘The Age of Sustainable Development’ of Professor Sachs, another gift of the Sindarin King, along with the clothes for the season. Always an environmentalist, that elf.) in his backpack. “Here, give me one.” He extended his left arm.

“You need a dollar?”

“No, Káno.” Maitimo thinned his lips. “The shopping bags. Let me carry one.”

Makalaurë blinked once, then twice. For a moment, there has been his older brother Nelyo, _his strong, caring and protective and only elder brother_ , before him, instead of the reincarnated teenager version of him. _‘Let me carry that pack, Káno, ere you break your harp. It is enough enormous for a single elf to carry as it is.’ ‘Let me take Himring, you can take care of the Gap.’_ _‘Let me worry about our soldiers, you go see the half-elves.’_

_‘Let me play Maedhros the one-handed monster, the redhead Fëanorian demon, the terrible leader of kinslayers. You should be Maglor, the loyal follower and sibling, the famous musician and the adoptive father of the children of the line of Kings.’_

“Here, take this one then.” Seeing his brother’s puzzled and slightly impatient look at his sudden lack of reponse, Makalaurë quickly smiled, passed on the smaller bag. Before Maitimo had chance to protest, he ruffled the copper locks, “We can’t have your developing arm bone grow unevenly, can we?”

He heared Maitimo huffled indignantly, but decided to ignore it.

“No, Maitimo, I wanted to say, it will be our New Year soon.”

 _I only wish it will be more crowded than the last years. We have always had the whole family in the celebration before_. He sighed, then chased the wistful hope out of his mind. He was strangely nostalgic today.

 

 

Several days later, with Dearon and Celeborn and Thranduil in their house celebrating another Elven New Year, Maitimo returned inside the living room from their mailbox, gave Makalaurë a red envelope, with a single ‘To Kanafinwë Makalaurë’ scripted outside.

There was no lucky money inside. Instead, the simple line written in the small piece of paper blurred before Makalaurë’s eyes, and Maitimo pecked up from his shoulder and read it out loud.

“You have been doing a good job, we will be sending the others shortly!”

In the middle of happy tears and Maitimo’s hugs and Dearon’s drunken singing and Celeborn’s gasp and Thranduil’s cup crashing on the ground, he never noticed the small p/s under the golden signature of Námo.

Until his others brothers (and Huan) came. As babies. All at once.

Good luck, and Happy New Year, Kanafinwë Makalaurë!

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elven New Year is in fact somewhere in March, but then, let’s forget it for awhile, okay?


End file.
